05/27/2015

Easter has come and gone. Mother’s Day too. Vintage shortsuits were worn with saddle shoes (!) and knee socks (!), and there was a lot of brunch. It seems like there is a lot of brunch in the spring. I spent my first two nights away from Aaron and Ewan in almost three years, on the Oregon Coast. It was notterrible. The strawberries are in full swing out on Sauvie Island (where these photos were taken), and we learned that u-pick with a toddler is both adorable and futile. This summer will likely be hotter than any I can remember here, and I am looking forward to it. I ordered Ewan two new swimsuits from the little boy's section. He will be three in August. I know this in my bones, when I look at him, when I try to pick him up, all limbs and solid muscle, but I also don’t believe it. Listen to me getting ahead of myself. In more ways than one. Tonight is cool and there is still some time unaccounted for. The world is that funny shade of florescent green. New growth. Spring.

What do you do when you’re feeling overwhelmed? Not the day-to-day kind of overwhelmed (although there is always that), but more, cosmically overwhelmed? I am still trying to find a solution. There is melodramatic television. (Hello, Outlander). Friends. Knitting sometimes. The god-forsaken internet. There are the same cookies every Friday. Everyone in this house but me is sick of them (if people can even be sick of cookies), and yet I keep making them? The same meals are on rotation (sorry, New Year’s resolutions). The same walks. The dogs are bored out of their minds. I sing to myself, mostly old songs. Hymns from my childhood. Listen to Sibyelle Baier and Angel Olsen on repeat. There is a stack of unread New Yorkers and three unopened library books on the nightstand. I taped this Rilke quote to the bathroom mirror. It mostly works. Except for when it doesn’t.

Reading rut not withstanding, I started Sally Mann's autobiography this week and finished it in a few days. I think the book is good, even great sometimes (although often problematic), but more than that, it was what I needed. I wonder about what Ewan needs. That is the understatement of the century. It leaves me reeling, all the ways I champion him and fail him every day. I am not doing a very good job of keeping track of his reading habits here, although I wish I was. Those posts matter more to me than all the others. There is one post, long overdue, about picture books involving letters and numbers and how we have read EVERY ONE IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE a million times over these last six months. I now consider myself an expert in the field. Albeit a narrow, only-interesting-to-a-small-handful-of-children, sort of field. Maybe I will still write it. There is a lot of comfort in a story about letters. There are only (ever) 26 of them. Finite things in an infinite world. I think I know exactly what he’s after.

03/06/2015

Spring is here, approximately two months early. I am knitting. Not well, but there you have it. A hurdle overcome after only a decade or so of trying. Quarter-life crisis in full swing. I have ripped out and re-started the same project an infuriating number of times, but that's okay. Knitting, even bad knitting with a lot of swearing, is just as calming as everyone says. The process is still a mystery to me. Why does it work? Seriously. I do not understand it AT ALL. If I make a mistake I have to rip everything out and start again. If I read too far ahead in the pattern or try to think about the big picture, I start to hyperventilate. One stitch at a time. Stitch, stitch, stitch. This is good practice for a parent. Or maybe just me. It's different than sewing in that way. You don't need to hold all the pieces in your head or think about what's next. One stitch. Then another. Then hey, congratulations, you made a hat.

I wouldn't be doing any of this if it wasn't for you, so thank you for all your encouragement and advice and just generally being fantastic people. Alicia reminded me about this piece she wrote awhile back on learning to knit, and you should probably drop everything and read it. I remember being very moved by it back then, but even more so now--to tears, actually. This is a knitting season of my life. I'm glad to have it. Glad for what it means. I still have to watch my hands closely (see previously mentioned swearing), so I have been listening to a lot of podcasts while I work: Dear Sugar (YES THIS IS A THING), Spilled Milk, and Radiolab, my old standby. I put Ewan to bed, and then put him back to bed, and then back again, and then put on my headphones and pour myself a bourbon and get to work. Fergus steals my ball of yarn like some freaking cartoon caricature of a cat. The dogs snore like dragons. It works, is what I'm saying. Quiet mind. Busy hands.

And then you have spring. Which is here, despite the odds, despite ten feet of snow elsewhere in the country. So much for my Hygge. Spring in Portland is really something. Cotton candy trees and the sky full of birds. I had no idea spring was actually like this outside of Eloise Wilkin illustrations, until I moved here from the California desert eight years ago. The desert has seasons to be sure, but they are subtle--a change in the quality of air, of wind. Maaaaybe some cactus blooming. Old retirees stop wearing socks with their sandals. (Just kidding, they never stop wearing socks with their sandals.) Spring here is basically drunk by comparison. Flowers spilling out everywhere. It seems impossible. Not unlike knitting. So we are partners in amazement, the two year old and I. We take walks. I tell him the names of the trees: plum, cherry, oak, apple, pear. He beheads a daffodil every ten feet. I find sticks and rocks and other flower casualties tucked in the front pockets of his overalls. Dirt pours out when I let down the cuffs.

The sun has been shining for ten days straight and I am trying not to think of the drought I know is coming, the dry and snowless Sierra Nevada's. We feed the ducks on Sundays. I am reading plenty: Dinner: A Love Story, by Jenny Rosenstrach, One More Thing, by B.J. Novak, and Slouching Towards Bethlehem, by Joan Didion, which I am embarrassed to say I never read in college like the good Gen-Y'er I claim to be. There are matchbox cars everywhere and on everything in my house and if someone hasn't invented a life insurance policy specifically for "death by slipping on matchbox car" then they really need to get on that already. I am making plans for my first weekend away from Ewan and Aaron since before I was pregnant, and I am a little bit worried but mostly excited. I am knitting. It is March. Impossible and beautiful.

01/28/2015

These photos were taken while visiting Aaron's family up in the Canadian Rockies just after Christmas. I offer them to you not only as proof that we have been alive and well (sorry, blog!), but also because look at that snow! What I wouldn't give for snow right now. It was a dreamland, I tell you. We had one small storm in Portland last year, so we weren't sure if Ewan would remember what snow was like. We talked about it a lot beforehand. Watched the Daniel Tiger, "Snowflake Day," episode four thousand times. Of course, when we got there he just acted like he'd been around snow his entire life and cried every time we asked him to come inside. The Canadian genes are strong with this one. So dear universe, Ewan and I would like some snow now, please. You know where to find us.

I beg for snow in January because January here is tough. Actually, all of the months until March are tough. Winter in Portland means low, looooow clouds and freezing rain with a side of seasonal affective disorder. It can be hard to get pumped about the new year when all you want to do is binge-watch Netflix and drink soup from a mug. I'm not really a resolution person, but I do like the idea of taking stock. Looking back at the past year and figuring out what worked and what I still suck at. And I want to start the year out on a positive note, not rocking under a sun lamp somewhere. So after reading this piece by one of my longtime favorite bloggers, I decided to make some small, attainable goals that don't make me hyperventilate, and possibly tackle my loathing for this season once and for all. In no particular order they are:

1. Play more music. We spent nearly all of December at the piano singing Christmas carols (with Ewan jamming on the triangle LOL), and it brought me right back to my own childhood. Someone was always playing or singing or harmonizing, or putting on a show. I'm sure my parents owned a lot of earplugs. Even though we play our instruments regularly, both Aaron and I want it to become a daily habit. I checked out a giant stack of piano and ukelele books for kids from the library, and we've been adding a song or two a day to our repetiore. I'm no Zoe Deschanel, but after nearly every song, Ewan says, "Wow! SO singing! Thanks mama!" and then I fall on the floor and die.

2. Make one new dish every week. I desperately need to shake things up in the recipe department. I want to cut myself some slack since I solo parent almost every night (oh the glamorous life of a chef's wife) and I always cook from scratch even though I haaaaate cooking, but I am FULL of excuses when it comes to trying new things. My goal is to add 52 new dishes to the rotation by the end of year and then declare myself a culinary goddess. Just kidding. Kind of. If anyone has any cheese-free recipes they'd like to share, especially of the one-pot variety, I'm all ears/eyes. Ewan has hated cheese basically since he started eating solid foods, and I know it's a battle I will never win. Also, WHO DOESN'T LIKE CHEESE? If you need me, I'll just be shoveling an entire block of sharp cheddar in my face after bedtime every night.

3. Hygge. I've read about it before--the Danish concept of "cozy," but decided to put it into practice this year. Especially if I want to make it to March unscathed. At first it seemed kind of ridiculous to light a fire in the fireplace every night and light every damn candle in the house and spend too much money on brunch and brew endless pots of tea for just me, myself, and I, but years previous have taught me that not doing those things takes a much bigger mental toll. So even if this isn't the snowy tundra, I'm trying to apply the principal in earnest. Now if I can just resist the daffodil bunches in front of Trader Joe's until it is actually SPRING, I'll consider it a victory.

4. Read more non-fiction. Honestly, I could just type "read more" and leave it at that, but non-fiction has been weirdly integral in finding my reading grove after becoming a parent. I love YA and kid-lit, obviously, but in my former life, I liked my books long, complicated, and preferably Russian. I beat myself up about it, until Aaron got a New Yorker subscription and I realized I could read small sections of non-fiction without falling asleep or feeling taxed. (And holy cow you guys, I just noticed that an all access subscription is only $12 on Amazon right now, WHAT THE WHAT?!) Suddenly I am reading again, and it feels really good. I've finished Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar (loved), Wild (did not love), Can't We Talk about Something More Pleasant? (brilliant), Yes Please, and Not That Kind of Girl (both fun). I re-read Holy the Firm for the millionth time, and just started The Chronology of Water. So if you have any other non-fiction to recommend, please feel free to share them in the comments!

5. Learn to Knit. Or maybe crochet? I don't know. All I know is that I can't do either and it's not for lack of trying. Already, two very dear people have tried to teach me to knit, and I don't know how to explain it, but I've never felt so clumsy in my life. I'm not sure why I could never get the hang of it. I used to love to quilt and sew, and still do, but I've realized that this is just not a sewing season in my life. But I think it could be a knitting or crocheting season? if I could just figure out how, and figure out the best way to learn. I've heard good things about private lessons through local fiber shops (luckily PDX is full of them), but maybe there is a book out there I should read instead? Or YouTube videos? Seriously, I have no idea. Maybe some of you lovely Fiber Arts people could steer me in the right direction? And also weigh in about the difference between learning to crochet vs. knit? I would very much appreciate it.

And that's it. Or at least it's a start. When I think about what's ahead, I keep coming back to this one corny little song. I mean, it's SO corny, but makes me weep nonetheless. I am getting sappy in my old age. Every time I play it for Ewan on the ukelele, he sings along at top volume in his sweet, small voice. "A wiiiiiiiiife dat's good!"

12/04/2014

Hello! How have you been? How was your November? I had big plans to be on time with holiday wishes for you folks in the States, along with a quick advent calendar post, but it's suddenly the 4th of December and I'm not sure how that happened. (Time machine? Sleep deprivation? Too much whiskey?) There is maybe the chance that one or two of you are still looking to throw together a sweet and easy advent calendar for the small people in your life, so here I am with the most belated (and possibly redundant) post of all time! I have to admit I was confused by the concept of the modern "advent calendar." I have a few vague childhood memories of paper calendars with tiny windows you could open on each day of December, revealing a little scene from the nativity. But that's about it. I grew up celebrating advent in my family...but, you know, actualAdvent. With a capital "A." Advent was a time of spiritual reflection: lighting special candles each Sunday, reading poems or scriptures. It was about reverence and tradition and, I realize now, silencing the noise and consumerism that typically fuels the Christmas season. As a kid I hated those Sundays (so boring! so stuffy! such itchy tights!), but I get it now and I love it. I carry on the tradition in my own home and look forward to it every year.

But hey! it's 2014 and Pinterest exists. There are suddenly "advent calendars" everywhere. And people are into them. Homemade, store bought, full of candy, or toys, or just... activities? It's perplexing. For one hot second, I started to think my kid (or future kids) would be disappointed if I didn't jump on the bandwagon, but then realized how insane that sounded, and promptly stepped away from the computer. I mean, I like the concept of a countdown calendar centered around winter/holiday activities, but the very idea of putting one together sounded like a logistical nightmare. Factor in a toddler with SPD, and obvious holiday activities like driving around to see the lights, riding the Holiday Express Train, going to the Nutcracker, meeting Santa, shopping, etc, were all completely out of the question. In fact, most holiday activities are a total nightmare for kids with different processing needs, so goodbye advent calendar! It was great not knowing you.

We were at the library browsing through the holiday books a few days later, when it finally occurred to me that we could do an "advent calendar" in our own way. The Book-Scout and her sensitive child way. Screw Pinterest. We checked out 25 holiday (and winter) books. I tried to make sure they were toddler appropriate--so no Gift of the Magi, or you know, Dickens. I picked up a bag of round wooden numbers at our local craft store, one for each day, and hot-glued them to some popsicle sticks we already had on hand. Viola. The Book-Scout Advent Calendar. Fifteen minutes to make, a total cost of $2.50, and already a huge hit with my tiny bookworm. He is especially into numbers and counting at the moment, so asking him to find the book with the right number each night after dinner is basically the most exciting thing that has ever happened to him. It's also been a neat way to get to know different stories within the Christmas tradition, and I want to continue to include books from across as many cultures and countries as possible, just like we do in our every day reading. Best of all are the few minutes of quiet and calm I get to spend with my boy at the end of these long, long days, in the busiest of all months. In December, it feels like the rarest thing. Because it is.

____________________________

These are the books we checked out this year, but feel free to share any of your new or old favorites in the comments! It was very last minute, so we used only what was on the library shelves (no holds, etc.), but next year I might take some more time to curate it and check out a few more titles from the list we all put together last December.

11/04/2014

I feel like this is probably connected to the post I wrote last week, but one of my biggest regrets in life (aside from obvious things like writing a lot of terrible poetry in college and the bad pixie cut that took three years to grow out) it is that there are so few photos from our first restaurant. There was not much money and even less time back then for "extras," but looking back, I wish we'd taken the time to document our life, our family, in that space a whole lot better. The place saw pregnancies and baby showers, birthdays, and family gatherings. It was the place where Ewan went from newborn to toddling around like he owned the place (he did). It was the place where I nursed him next to the walk-in in the office basement, and the place where we spent so many long hours, pouring everything we had into what we hoped would someday become a restaurant that people really cared about. It was not unlike losing a family member the night we closed those doors, and we have very little photographic evidence to show for our time as a family there. I was determined, determined, not to let that happen again with our new restaurant.

I may have very mixed feelings about social media and the like, but I am also fortunate enough to have met some incredible people through it. I was "introduced" to Posy on Instagram through a friend, and immediately admired her work, her wicked sense of humor, her humility and kindness. I began to realize that our children were eerily similar (despite gender and a five-year age difference), and started opening up to her and she always knew just what to say when I was struggling. We eventually became friends in real life. I knew when the time came to take photos at the new restaurant, she was the only person I could imagine doing it. I once told Aaron that talking to Posy felt like talking to someone I had known for a very long time. It's a rare feeling, and one I don't take lightly. A photo session with her feels much the same way. Like spending time with someone who sees the real you. Totally effortless. She took photos one recent morning at both of our "homes" (our house and our restaurant), and I wanted to share a few of them here. There are lots more over on her blog if you are interested in taking a peek. I think it goes without saying that I cannot recommend her enough if you're looking for a lifestyle/family photographer.

Thank you, Posy. We are so lucky to have these photos and you in our lives. xx

10/29/2014

The countdown begins. Time to hastily carve some pumpkins. Or buy the fake, already carved ones from Target. (Holla!) If you happen to be looking for some very last minute Halloween gifts, the books I reviewed for NW Kids magazine last year are still great, as is this list over at Kirkus. Also, this costume, and this one, and this one, and this one, and this group costume, win every Halloween ever.

As much as I wanted to continue with some kind of literary costume tradition for Ewan, I knew there was no way I could top last year's costume. And when we asked him who he would like to be this year, "DANIEL TI-BER!" was the only response. Not Peter Pan. Not Christopher Robin. He would not be persuaded. The whole thing was cobbled together from things we already had on hand or in his closet. I did buy the shoes from H&M, but I know he will get lots of wear out of them. The hat is made from this pattern on Etsy, and I made a little Tigey doll for him out of leftover felt scraps from my stash. It turned out to be the most annoying thing I've ever made (so many stripes, so much blanket stitching), but he looooooves it, so all the swearing I did is mostly forgotten. I would do anything for this face.

Wishing you all a Happy Halloween, Happy Samhain, Happy All Saints Day, or just a very, very happy November.

10/25/2014

Right now, I have very simple fantasies. I picture myself walking in to a cafe, ordering a double short latte "for here," putting on my headphones, and spending a few hours writing. I also fantasize about peeing alone. These are the top contenders. This is not a 'time to write' or 'pee alone' season in my life. I have mostly made my peace with that, especially in these months full of events and holidays on the restaurant front. The busy season used to end in August. Now it's November. It feels not unlike seeing Christmas decorations in the stores before Halloween. You start to wonder when we all collectively decided that this new schedule was okay. But the problems, if you want to call them that, are good ones to have. If I must pee with the bathroom door open, at least I get to hear an enthusiastic two year old sing/shout the Daniel Tiger potty song at me and clap when I'm done. He is very proud of my potty abilities. And if I can't write, can't afford to carve out that space anymore, then at least I can go to the restaurant and hold a perfectly cold drink, and watch Ewan eat oranges next to the pass and see the faces of a hundred happy customers. Now is just as good a time and place to be as any. Aaron brings home a peace offering of a baguette and freshly ground coffee every night for me to wake up to in the morning. It's not a locking bathroom door or a writing desk of my own, but it goes a long way. A long, long way.

I took these photos last month, during a really neat event that takes places on Mount Hood every September. You can see the photos from last year here. It is one of my favorite industry events, not only because the competition is fun, the food is great, and having so many friends and makers and chefs in one place feels like a party, but also because industry families are welcome. It's one of the few times where Ewan and I are able to tag along and watch Aaron work. Also, we get to remember what a clear sky with stars looks like and eat unlimited waffles for breakfast. Everyone wins. Yes, trying to keep a toddler happy (and well-behaved) around a lot of knives and fire on a verrrrrry steep mountain is not without its challenges. Sleeping exactly no hours in three days also takes fortitude. It's worth it. How could it not be?

A lovely Portland blogger recently interviewed Aaron and I about our relationship and what it's like to have a family in this business. It was interesting putting to words some of the things that swirl around my brain but don't have much of an outlet anywhere. Especially now that I'm staying at home full time. I'm not sure there's anyway to describe the vortex-like nature of owning a restaurant without actually having lived it. But it's worth a try. This blog will always, mostly, be about books. I will always be a former, and maybe-again-someday librarian. And there is a story I still need to write. But this is now. And it's nice to check in from time to time and say hello. To talk about the view from here.

08/09/2014

I have been listening to a lot of talk lately about the heatwave we've had in Portland the past few weeks. This is extra amusing when you grew up in a place that was routinely hotter than 120 degrees during the summer months. But Portland is neither prepared for heat or air conditioned in any way, so I mostly just nod my head and agree and park myself in front of our window unit. Or head down to the pool with our giant sun hats and spf 50. But when I hear things like, 'I can't remember the last time it was this hot for so long!' I can barely stop myself from saying, 'ACTUALLY, I CAN.' Because I was 9 months pregnant with Ewan. And then in labor for five days (yes, five), during an equally brutal heat-wave. I will always be grateful to the kind friends who collectively gifted me an inflatable pool for the backyard, so I could float weightless after working on my feet all day long. Every second of that month is etched into my memory--swollen toes, the dry grass and withering hydrangea, the pounds of watermelon I ate. I was waiting for the thing that I knew would change my life, although I didn't know how. I was waiting for Ewan. And today he is two.

I've been allowing myself some nostalgia (because I'm a sucker like that), and thinking about all the ways things have changed, the ways that I have changed, but I have also been thinking of how much has stayed the same. Because that's the wonderful thing about kids. You get to nurture them and teach them kindness, but they are already born complete. Totally themselves and fully formed. Hopefully, you get to spend the rest of your life getting to know them. I'll never forget when the leader of a moms' group I attended once told me (and the others) that we would only be able to truly perceive our babies' personalities later on, because she was completely wrong. Wrong like whoa. When Ewan was four weeks old I wrote this post, and this line always jumps out at me, 'His eyes are dark, dark blue, always wide open. He is calm, not particularly sleepy (alas), and strong.' And nothing, absolutely nothing about what I wrote that day has changed.

He is one of the most observant, gentle, and thoughtful people I have ever known. And he is still strong. He is my Ferdinand. He did eventually begin to sleep, at around 20 months, but he wasn't born with the ability to turn his brain off like most folks, so I sometimes still hear him talking or singing to himself in the middle of the night. Obviously, I will never again use the phrase, 'sleep like a baby,' to mean anything other than being awake 24 hours a day for almost two years. I have worried, as he has gotten older, about how much to share about him here. I've loved having a record of his first year, and every 52 weeks post is precious to me. I love to talk about what we are reading and the little things we do. But the question of privacy comes up more often now, as I realize what an intensely introverted person he is, and that he will have his own feelings about all this eventually. But I don't want to let a birthday go by without remembering how he is, at right this very minute.

He loves to run. FAST. Preferably with a stick. Preferably at the park and away from the playground, where the screaming kids who never stop screaming are sometimes too much for him... and me, let's be honest. Good call, Ewan. Often he will find a similarly minded little buddy to (quietly) dig in the mud with, or some dogs to greet, or birds to spot, and like many little boys, I think, is happiest outside, with a lot of dirt. He surprises me with his fearlessness and ability to brush off just about any fall or scrape. He is not quite as resilient when it comes to social interactions though, and we are working really hard on learning to just walk away when other kids are too loud or intense or aggressive. In case you're wondering, that is about 95% of toddlers and at least 75% of older kids, so social outings are a mixed bag these days. But when he loves someone, he loves them with the fire of a thousand suns, and it has been amazing to see how deeply attached he is to the people in his life (both big and small) with whom he feels comfortable and safe.

He loves blocks, and spends whole mornings building, "BIIIIIG towers!' and knocking them down just so he can start all over again. His love of coloring and drawing and painting and sidewalk chalk and working with stickers and playdoh continues to amaze me, mostly because I cannot draw a stick person to save myself. He is already practicing letters, and trees, and experimenting with colors, and trying to stay inside the lines and holy crap, SLOW YOUR ROLL, baby Van Gogh. Just kidding. Kind of. (All mothers are allowed to think their children are special snowflakes, right?) His concentration is intense. He will focus on the same activity for hours sometimes. It used to make transitions difficult for him (with eeeeeepic tantrums), but he has made leaps and bounds in that department these last few months. Either I am finally figuring out how best to deal with them or he is learning to take things in stride. Probably both. Unless it involves Thomas the Tank Engine, in which case you'd better be prepared for a Lord of the Rings scenario.

After a long time wondering if I would ever hear much of his gravely little voice, he is suddenly talking a blue streak, and there are so many words I secretly hope he will never pronounce correctly: quen-quens (penguins), yoda (yogurt), chish (fish),and straw-babies (strawberries--which applies to the whole berry family), just to name a few. He is starting to really communicate, ask for things, tell me when something hurts, describe what he sees, but he is still mostly a reserved little fellow who listens more than he speaks. His quest to learn to read continues, and he can identify all 26 letters, upper and lower case, and the phonics sounds for each. He 'spells' words with foam shapes in the bathtub (that mean nothing), but it's so neat to see him try. When people ask us how we taught him all of this, I just tell them it was because I showered every day while the show Super Why was on, thus further cementing my 'mother of the year' status.

He loves counting, and music, and singing songs, but he especially loves reciting books to anyone who will listen. When you are a small person with big feelings and a limited vocabulary, the world can be a confusing place. I think books give him (and kids like him) words for things he doesn't know how to express yet. Someone gave him a copy of Are You My Mother, a few months back, and even though it has never been my favorite (I've always prefered the much more inclusive,A Mother for Choco), he has been obsessed with it.I would hear him reciting the book to himself as he played with his animal figures, or in his crib in the morning, or whenever he was feeling scared, and I never could understand why, until one afternoon when I came home after he and his grandma had spent the day together. He crawled up into my lap, laid his head on my chest, and said very clearly but in the smallest whisper,

I know who you are.You are not a kitten.You are not a hen.You are not a dog.You are not a cow.You are not a boat,or a plane, or a Snort!You are a bird,and you are my mother.

And it made perfect sense. One day he will be able to tell me he loves me, or say 'I missed you, Mommy.' Until then, we have a book about some birds. And it is enough. The chance to be able to get over yourself every day is a gift. To realize your preferences and tastes pale in comparison to what is being offered to you instead. And what a wonderful life it is, to get to love someone this way. To watch them grow up. To write it all down.

06/16/2014

2. Before you go running for the hills, I should probably clarify that I don't necessarily mean housework as much as I mean every day activities. Things like going to the store, or cleaning up toys, or watching the garbage truck rattle down the road. RIVETING STUFF, I assure you.

So I've been thinking lately about the mundane. The boring stuff that doesn't make it onto blogs or Instagram, but in reality, make up the majority of our days. This is especially true if you find yourself at home caring for a small person, but honestly it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what the work is or who is doing it (mom, dad, a professional). There's always more to do and it nothing ever stays done anyway. I've made my peace with occasionally running out of milk, and floors that are always covered in animal hair. Especially since I am one of those strange people who finds housework and errand running oddly soothing--the way others like to cook, or garden, or fix up cars. I am a chronic tidier. Naturally I am raising a child with equally weird proclivities. (He loves to vacuum.) But spend five minutes with any toddler and you'll know that they'rea all pretty fixated on exactly the things adults find most trivial. Sweeping, folding (and re-folding) laundry, going to the market, the library.

I am definitely not the first person to make this observation. There are entire schools of education based around the idea. But because I am me, I am also wondering about books. Once upon a time there was a whole genre of books written for babies and toddlers about trivial, everyday things. We own quite a few and they are oooooold. And also sloooooow. My husband affectionately refers to them as 'the most boring books in the universe,' and he's not wrong. Except I can remember pouring over the Eloise Wilkin books when I was a kid and being totally fascinated. Fascinated by chores. What-the-what. So where did those books go? How does an entire genre disappear? Do we really value our daily tasks so little that it's easier to pretend to our children that they don't exist? Also, as the current culture shifts back toward hand-craft, and physical work, and sustainable living, can we (the parents of vacuum-obsessed toddlers) hope to see books like that again?

I honestly don't know. I'm not advocating a return to some kind of 1950's hetero-normative culture or anything. I may be a SAHM but I am also a card-carrying feminist. It's just that books about every day life for babies and toddlers are actually important to babies and toddlers. At some point in the last few decades, it's as if publishers got together and decided that these books no longer spoke to the times. And I get it, I really do, but folks, I have a son who begs to differ. He would like to wash so many dishes that our water bill would exceed our mortgage payment, and slide my library card under the scanner approximately four million times, and practice 'stirring' ten hours a day, and spend thirty minutes just standing under every single 'treeeeeeee!' at the park. And we live in Oregon, you guys. THERE ARE A LOT OF TREES. He just wants to know how to be a person. How to live in the world. How to do things. It is his work. And it makes him very happy.

So we pour over books by Shirley Hughes, and Margaret Wise Brown, Eloise Wilkin, and Taro Gomi, and even the newer Lola series by Anna McQuinn. And if the success of Lola At the Library is any indicator, I can't help but wonder (Carrie Bradshaw style), why more publishers haven't jumped on the bandwagon. I've completely cleaned out Goodwill and resorted to scouring ebay for old/new titles. And pretty soon he is going start asking me why I don't wear an apron and a 1950's house-dress every day, and why daddy does the cooking, and I'm sorry, but nobody wants that. Is it too much to ask for some modern, realistic illustrations and settings in books for toddlers? With different types of families and children and modern stores and modern streets and maybe, just maybe, a vacuum manufactured after 1963?

An almost two year old and his parents can dream, right?

I am sure there are books out there we must be missing. Were your kids (or the kids in your life) obsessed with household work at this age? Can you think of any titles that might fit the bill? I am all ears. And I promise to never write about chores again unless I am talking about Ma Ingalls or something. Book-scout's honor.

05/13/2014

She thought to herself, "This is now." She was glad that the cozy house, and Pa and Ma and the firelight and the music, were now. They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can never be a long time ago.

-Laura Ingalls Wilder, Little House in the Big Woods

I wrote this post a year ago. It feels like yesterday. No, wait. It feels like today. When people ask me how old you are now, I still answer in months, but the truth is that two is just on the horizon. Over there, only a little way off. Being your mother has altered me in profound ways, but none more so than my relationship with time. Time the healer and time the destroyer. Today you said, 'Big Boy!' as you climbed to the top of the playground structure. The older kids were running in circles and you were too scared to move, but I could see you practically vibrating with excitement. My heart broke and then knit itself back together again. I cheered.

This winter was a dark one for me. It was for all of us, really. But I am standing on the edge of that now, thank God, with a lot of help and love, looking forward, trying desperately to remember all of the details before this time is over. Your hair is lighter than ever. A million cowlicks at the crown. You run full-speed everywhere. You throw things on the ground just to say, 'uh oh.' You love ketchup. (Deeply.) You 'read' books by shouting out the letters, not quite grasping yet that the letters make up words. You are my big boy. You are my baby. It already feels like yesterday. But it never will be. Not really.